


Communicator

by nanami



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 23:51:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12715413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanami/pseuds/nanami
Summary: Cheria had told Sophie once that she's not good at identifying feelings. But watching Cheria and Pascal interact, Sophie thinks she might not be the only one.On her first solo journey around the world, Sophie decides to take matters into her own hands.





	Communicator

**Author's Note:**

> well I tried to write something about Sophie and it ballooned into this monster, so. I have no excuse.
> 
> this is a nebulous timeline pre-L&L in my headcanon world where L&L isn't an issue, I guess??

“Ugh, okay, fold. You’re way too good at this, Sophie.”

Sophie narrows her eyes to shoot Pascal a devious look before reaching across the floor to bring home her spoils of war: a mountain of bananas that Pascal thought it smart to bet in their poker games, before realizing that Sophie can’t be beat. Out of fifty games that day, Pascal hadn’t won once, and her stock of bananas started to get spread thin. By the second game, she realized the stupidity of using her bananas as betting chips; by the fifth, it was already too late to back out.

Sophie peels a banana and chomps down, smiling as she drops her cards to reveal the straight flush in her hand. “It’s okay, Pascal,” she says through her mouthfuls of banana, “I’ll share my bananas with you.”

“Sophie, you’re the best!” Pascal nearly bolts to cover the distance, sat on the floor with only the bananas between them, and hugs Sophie as tight as she can muster. Sophie makes a noise of slight annoyance before hugging back.

It’s just another typical day in the enclave, really.

After Sophie expressed her desire to spend more time with her family, Asbel initially hesitated, wondering if she was really ready enough to travel by herself. She had stomped her feet and grumbled that she wasn’t a child, and if anything, it was _Asbel_ that she had to watch out for, making sure that he ate on time and didn’t forget to do his paperwork and didn’t step on her flowers. He had relented after that, nervously rubbing the back of his neck and wondering when Sophie had developed such a wild streak.

It wasn’t a wild streak, she said. It’s just who she is.

So she set out on her own, braving the same path that they had walked together just months earlier, plodding through sand and snow and everything in-between. Pascal is the first person she’s visited, after she decided to travel to the farthest reaches of the world and make her way back around to Lhant.

Pascal was more than happy to see her, and said that they should play more games of poker. Sophie smiled about that, but wondered exactly why Pascal was setting herself up to lose even more of her possessions (or machines, or clothes), since she always bet more than she could handle.

Case in point: the mountain of bananas currently sitting beside Sophie. The face Pascal makes when she loses her bananas is too sad, so Sophie takes pity on her and hands one to her so they can both chomp down on bananas.

When their treats have been eaten, Pascal goes back to tinkering with some machine she had started that weekend, smacking it with her hammer to, as she put it, “clear out the ol’ gears”. Sophie isn’t quite sure how that helps, but Pascal somehow always makes it work, so she supposes it doesn’t really matter how she gets there.

Halfway through Pascal’s off-kilter, out-of-tune song about her strikes with the hammer, Sophie finds herself lying upside-down on Pascal’s bed, her hair trailing on the floor and her legs against the wall. If Cheria were there, she knows she’d be scolded, told that it was a very rude way to sit, but Pascal had said that what Cheria didn’t know won’t hurt her. It seemed like very sage advice, and Sophie certainly didn’t want Cheria hurt.

“Pascal,” she says suddenly, and Pascal must somehow manage to hear her despite the excuse for music coming out of her mouth because she stops singing and turns around, “do you ever get lonely in the enclave?”

“Huh?” Pascal says, bouncing her pointer finger against her forehead. “Not really! I have Poisson, and my sis, and all the other Amarcians that live here to talk to, so I don’t ever get lonely!”

“But you left the enclave before,” Sophie continues, raising her voice when Pascal turns back around to get back to work. “I get to talk to Asbel and grandma all the time, but I still got lonely. I wanted to see you, and Cheria, and the Captain and Uncle Hubert. Is that weird?”

Pascal smacks her machine again, and it rings hollow. “It’s not weird, Sophie! I missed you too!” Rubbing her face with her scarf, she digs through her toolbox for her drill ( _her_ drill, she had said, despite the very clear “property of Fourier” written on its side).

“Does anyone else ever visit you?”

“Well, the enclave is kinda on top of the most dangerous mountain in the world. Can’t says I blame them for wanting to stay home.”

Sophie frowns. That’s no excuse, she thinks. “Do you ever visit them?”

“I’ve been busy working on the hot water system in Fendel!” Pascal twirls, scarf trailing behind her; Sophie doesn’t point out that the machine she’s working on is very clearly _not_ for the hot water system, unless the hot water system needs something shaped like a cat mechanoid.

“You should send letters,” Sophie suggests, sitting up and righting herself to more clearly look Pascal in the eyes. “I write letters to everyone, too.”

“Not my style.” Pascal waves a hand in front of her face, making the thought vanish before it forms. “It takes _ages_ to get a letter, and by the time it gets there, all the _blah blah blah how’s the weather there?_ isn’t gonna be relevant anymore.”

Sophie’s eyes wander to Pascal’s desk (or what passes for a desk in her room, crowded and cramped with her research papers and machines as it is), resting upon the small, cylindrical device sitting there as it gives off a small, ethereal and green light. “You should use the communicators, then.”

Pascal stops in her tracks for a moment, and then slams her fist against her palm. “That’s a great idea, Sophie!” It doesn’t take long for her to dive around her room, searching for the bolts and washers and metal she used to build one before.

Sophie smiles with satisfaction. Maybe her plan would work, after all.

* * *

Sophie had noticed it before they did. Cheria said, once, that she wasn’t good at expressing feelings, that she wasn’t _bad_ at them necessarily, but they were hard for her to identify. Feelings make people act differently than she expects. Feelings make a normally stoic person jittery, a normally jittery person stoic.

She had talked to the Captain about it after that. Asked him why feelings made people act the way they do. His eyes glazed over with a far off look for a moment, before telling her about the love sickness bug, an illness that gave people warm cheeks, hot fevers and made them act irrationally.

It seemed a very serious illness at the time. But when Hubert sneezed on a visit to Lhant—allergies, she learned later—she told him to be careful that he wasn’t catching love sickness.

He wasn’t very happy about that.

He told her, as he often did, that the Captain was spouting nonsense again (how could he be? she thought—he’s so wise and experienced, he knows so much about _everything_ ), that she should study up on these things instead of believing what the Captain said all the time. She had wrinkled her nose and asked him why the books he read were more reliable than the Captain—a second-hand account is less reliable than a first-hand story, she told Hubert, as Malik had said. And Hubert just shook his head, sighed, and told her to try and learn more things from observation, instead of just listening to the Captain all the time.

So she watched people, instead. She watched how Cheria sighed around Asbel, told him that he should pay more attention to the people around him, that he should catch up on his work. She watched how on the rare days Pascal visited Lhant, she whispered jokes into Cheria’s ear that made her giggle quietly, hand in front of her face to keep from making a scene.

She saw how Cheria started making banana pies more often, and how Pascal always stuck around to gobble them down while saving the last slice for Cheria. She saw how Cheria smiled, blushed at the compliment to her cooking, played with her dress when Pascal said that she was happy to meet her for more than just the banana pies. And she saw how Pascal told Cheria she needed a break from Lhant, and that if her relief organization was stopping through Fendel, she’d have a place to stay if she didn’t mind the mess.

She’s not the best at her own feelings, Cheria had told her once. But Sophie is certain that she’s good at identifying them in others.

* * *

Pascal’s new communicators are done within the next few days. Sophie finds herself just drifting off to sleep on Pascal’s uncomfortably crooked bed when Pascal shakes her awake, saying, “Sophie, check ‘em out! They’re all done!”

Sophie rubs her bleary eyes, shaking the sleep from them. “That’s great, Pascal,” she says, somewhat annoyed—it’s a trick she’s learned from Cheria, the way she doesn’t _say_ her irritation out loud, and if she sounds a little irate, Pascal is too busy celebrating to notice.

“Five more communicators, right here!” Pascal croons, holding them between her fingers like her doomed poker hand from the other day. “I already have one, and I made the Captain one when we were talking about the hot water system stuff, so there’s one for everyone else!”

Pascal hands one over to her, and Sophie takes it in her hand, the machine surprisingly light for its size. It’s not much bigger than her palm, but Pascal has somehow managed to cram a screen and a section for squares with small letters on them just like the computer in the Archive of Wisdom. Sophie turns it over in her hand, feeling the small machine’s weight roll in her hand.

“Let’s test ‘em out,” Pascal says suddenly, breaking through the silence with all the subtlety of crashing through a brick wall. Her hands are still gloved as she whisks her fingers on her own communicator, switching between keys so fast Sophie feels her head spinning. When she finishes typing with a sudden and final clicking sound, the machine makes a small warbling noise and the same little holographic bird flies out and sits near Sophie’s communicator in her hand.

The message, as expected from Pascal, looks like gibberish to her.

(But then, Sophie thinks, she’s still learning how to read.)

“What does it say?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Pascal spins in place. “It says you should give one of these to everyone else! It’ll be fun! Like a sleepover where we can all talk to each other from the ends of the world, no matter how far apart we are!”

“That sounds great, Pascal.”

“You’re going back to Windor soon, right, Sophie?” Pascal continues, tapping at her head as if to turn the gears inside. “You should hand them out to everyone. I already programmed everyone’s info into them, so we can talk right away! Make sure you get one to Cheria, too,” she says, unprompted; Sophie’s ears perk up at the addition.

“Do you miss her?”

“Well, yeah!” Pascal scuffs at the ground with her shoes to fill the space before she answers. “She’s always busy with her healing powers stuff. I think that’s cool and all, but she’s never anywhere I visit! We’re always missing each other and I want to make sure I get to talk to her again. So if you see her, make sure you give her one!”

“I will, Pascal.” Sophie feels a smile forming on her face before she even blinks.

“Thanks, Sophie!” Pascal rushes over to give Sophie a hug with such force that she nearly picks Sophie up.

Before, Sophie would have shot her away, harnessing all the energy in her body to her fists like fighting a mutated monster on Fodra. Now, she merely reaches around Pascal’s back to finish the hug. A hug, Cheria had told her under the grip of Pascal’s hug herself, is best when it’s shared.

* * *

The cold days of Mt. Zavhert never seemed to bother the Amarcians, and leaving the enclave with an Amarcian shawl wrapped around her shoulders that Fourier had given her, Sophie thinks she can guess why. The shawl must be lined with thick animal fur, because she can barely feel the chill seeping through the cloth. Fourier looked embarrassed when she handed it over, but Sophie still doesn’t know why; isn’t helping people in cold weather the right thing to do?

She hears Cheria’s words in her mind. _You’re not bad at feelings, you just have a hard time telling people what you really feel._ Maybe, Sophie thinks, she’s not the only one.

Zavhert is livelier than the last time she visited with friends; a town once smothered by the flame of revolution and revolt, now there are sprouts in the soil and flowers waiting to bloom, the barren land growing new life. There are visitors from all over the world, wearing military uniforms that look like Hubert’s and armor that remind her of the stories the Captain’s told her of the knight academy.

She feels very much alone in that instant, surrounded by familiarity too different to be soothing. The throngs of people bustling between the storefronts and the snow floating between them are almost too much for her, and she pulls her shawl closer to her chest, waiting for the storm to pass.

When the people begin to clear, Sophie thinks she sees a flash of pink. The sight breathes new determination into her, an echo of home. Without a second thought, she follows what might be a trick of the light, until—

“Sophie?”

The voice is kind and gentle, warm and loving, the one that tells her to wash her hair and brush her teeth, the one that sings her lullabies to sleep. “Cheria!”

“Sophie!” Cheria exclaims, running to catch Sophie in a tight hug.

Sophie feels her heart lift instantly. For all the words she had told Asbel, all the convincing she did, some part of her was lonelier than she expected without a friend to talk to, traveling through the same sights they once saw together. But Cheria is _right here_ after all, a stroke of luck that she won’t take for granted, a lighthouse on a stormy night. She grips Cheria tightly, her fingers bracing the cold, struggling to reach around the heavy coat Cheria’s chosen for her outing.

Cheria squeezes Sophie tighter, resting her chin on Sophie’s head. “Sophie, I’m so glad to see you. I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“I missed you too, Cheria,” Sophie says, holding in the hundreds of thoughts she wants to tell Cheria—about her trip, her flower garden, the books she’s managed to read, what Pascal said—but for the moment she’s soothed by the warm, safe feeling of Cheria holding her in her arms, and all of her worries melt away. “You’ve been really busy. Asbel said he hasn’t seen you in months.”

Cheria rolls her eyes and huffs. “I’ve been back more often than _that_. He just never comes to see me.”

“Or he’s exaggerating,” Sophie corrects, the corners of her lips turning up when Cheria frowns in frustration. “Because he misses you. We all miss you.”

Cheria feels heat rising to her cheeks at that, nearly melting the snow around her. “Sophie, why don’t we go inside and heat up? It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m not cold.”

“Your arms are freezing,” Cheria tuts, running a hand through Sophie’s hair, matted with stray, half-melted snowflakes. “Come on. Let’s get you warmed up.”

Sophie doesn’t protest further, and when Cheria leads them to the inn, she finds herself much colder than she thought. The Amarcian shawl can only do so much. Asbel insisted that she packed warmly if she was going to visit Fendel, but she realized too late that she didn’t really _have_ warm clothes: the temperate climate of Windor never reached the blistering cold of Fendel, and besides, warmer clothing was out of season for the year.

She didn’t tell Asbel that she couldn’t find warmer clothing. He’d just fret too much, she figured. But looking at Cheria’s worried face as she pulls Sophie’s hand to sit around the cryas stove burning in the inn lobby, she thinks she should have looked a little more.

They sit together for a little bit, Sophie blowing hot air on her hands before spreading them out in front of the fire. The shawl Fourier gave her rests around her knees, blanketing her in soft down. Cheria pulls her own coat off and places it around Sophie’s shoulders, and Sophie pulls it closer to her chest for protection.

She hadn’t realized she was so cold. But then, she hadn’t realized she was so lonely, either.

When Sophie has warmed up, her fingers gaining color again, Cheria breaks the silence with her gentle voice. “Sophie, what are you doing up here all by yourself?”

“I’m not a kid,” Sophie grumbles, an echo of the words she told Asbel. “I just wanted to see everyone, and Asbel was too busy to go with me.”

“I know you’re not, Sophie,” Cheria says, but her smile twitches a bit; Sophie might _look_ the same as she did when she first walked into Lhant seven years ago, but she’s much more confident in her decisions, much more mature and happy. Regardless, some part of Cheria can’t redirect her motherly instincts; and besides, she figures, every child needs a mother, no matter how old they are. “I just worry about you sometimes. A little too much, maybe.”

“I get worried about you too, Cheria,” Sophie says, looking into Cheria’s eyes.

Cheria smiles softly, genuinely this time. “That’s what family’s like, Sophie.”

Sophie’s learned over their journey together: yes, that’s what family’s like.

* * *

Cheria rents them an inn room for the night, just like they used to on their journey. The innkeep in Zavhert is friendlier than he used to be, boasting about the heat of his rooms. The rooms don’t even need a fire cryas stove, he says; now, the Amarcians have installed a new system based on hot water that keeps things toasty warm without the ridiculous overhead of the past.

Sophie doesn’t mention how Cheria’s smile glows at the man’s praise for the hot water system, but she notices.

When they’ve settled in for the night, Sophie in fresh pajamas, hair loose from her pigtails and washed for the evening, Cheria hums a tune as she brushes Sophie’s hair. Sophie doesn’t tell her that it’s the same song Pascal was singing a few days ago (but, certainly, much more pleasant to listen to).

Cheria sets the brush aside for a moment, running her fingertips through Sophie’s hair. “You have such beautiful hair, Sophie,” she whispers, eyes closed.

Sophie turns slightly, confused. “I do?”

“Yes, of course you do! It’s so pretty, and it’s really nice to brush.”

“It’s really heavy in battle.”

“Do you want to cut it?”

“No,” Sophie says, shaking her head, her movement trapped by Cheria’s hands on her hair. “If it’s cut, it’ll grow back really fast.” Downsides of being a humanoid, maybe; it had never occurred to her before, but from the way that Cheria sounded worried, and from the way Cheria gently threads her fingers through Sophie’s torrential waterfall of hair, she’s a bit relieved that it’ll always grow back.

“Mm, I wish my hair would do the same. But if it did, I guess I’d make some stupid decisions.”

“What do you mean?” Sophie turns, quizzical look on her face; nothing Cheria did could ever be a stupid decision!

“I’ve tried cutting and styling my hair before to make Asbel notice it, but he never did,” she sighs, her hands stopping in place. “If it grew as fast as yours did, I’d probably make some rash decisions to make sure he noticed. He’s a bit of a dummy sometimes,” she says, laughing a bit too lightly to sound natural.

It doesn’t sound like sincere laughter. Sophie doesn’t laugh with her.

There’s an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, until Cheria’s hands start up again, her sighs weighing into Sophie’s back. “I can’t believe Pascal of all people noticed, but not him. She said it was really pretty. Why do I bother sometimes?”

The question isn’t meant to have an answer, Sophie thinks, but the unspoken implication hovers in the air between them like an anvil waiting to be dropped. Sophie turns around to hug her instead of saying anything, and Cheria holds her tightly in response.

When Sophie’s hair is brushed and clean, Cheria announces that it’s time for bed, and Sophie makes a noise of disapproval. Despite her reservations, she climbs under the sheets of her bed, and Cheria tucks her in, drawing the covers up to her chest. “Goodnight, Sophie. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Cheria,” Sophie responds. Cheria kisses the top of her forehead and gets up to turn off the light, but before she can—“Cheria?”

“Yes, Sophie?”

“I think your hair is nice.”

Cheria looks bewildered for a moment, before a small, gentle smile forms on her face. “Thank you, Sophie.”

* * *

The next morning, by the time Sophie wakes up, Cheria is already awake and dressed for the day, combing her hair and tying it up with her bows. Sophie remembers how Cheria told her in secret that the cold, brisk Fendel air was better for her hair than the humidity of Lhant. She wonders how long it took Cheria to brush it back to normal.

When she stirs, rolling the fluffed, warm bedsheets off of her, the cold rushes in; Cheria turns at the noise, and her momentary startle is replaced by a sweet smile. “Good morning, Sophie,” she says, nearly in song, humming a tune to herself. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” Sophie replies, because it’s the truth—certainly a much better sleep than Pascal’s lumpy bed ever gave her. She would have rather taken the floor at Pascal’s home if Cheria wouldn’t have scolded her for it. But the beds at the Zavhert inn are more comfortable than they used to be, a sign of the new, prosperous windfall reaching the nation.

A few moments later, rubbing sleep from her eyes, Sophie pushes the remaining covers off and stands up, her bare feet padding on the floors. It makes her happy to realize the floors are warm, that Pascal’s efforts have already been realized, that the people are living better lives because of someone in her little makeshift family.

When she digs through her belongings for her clothes, the communicators Pascal handed her shift and clink against each other. She had almost forgotten after meeting Cheria by chance yesterday, but this is a perfect opportunity. She pulls out the tiny machine labelled with Cheria’s name and walks over to Cheria, holding it tightly in her hands like a comfort blanket. “Cheria, Pascal wanted me to give this to you.”

“What is it?” Cheria asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the device nonetheless, turning it over in her hands, the screen lighting up in a harsh, metallic green. “Wait, is this one of those machines Pascal had when we were on our journey? She used this to talk to Poisson, right?”

“Right,” Sophie nods, watching Cheria inspect the device. “Pascal calls it a communicator. She said you can use it to talk to anyone in the world, no matter how far away they are.”

“Fodra doesn’t count though, right?” Cheria says, a sly smile crawling on her face. It’s coming back to her now—the small holographic bird, the short messages relayed across seas and oceans, Pascal’s efforts to contact home from a different planet. Despite the minor setback of interplanetary travel, it was an invaluable tool on their travels, and the power of the tiny device, barely big enough to fill her palm but far reaching enough to convey messages from Strahta to Fendel, makes her head spin a bit. “Wow, this is really thoughtful of her.”

“She said she wanted to keep in touch. You’re always around the world with your relief organization. I want to talk to you too, but I don’t know how to send you letters when you’re working.”

“Well, now you won’t have to.” Cheria finally lifts her eyes from the communicator to meet Sophie’s gaze, and reaches over to squeeze her arm. “Now we can always talk, no matter how far away we are.”

“You should send a message to Pascal to tell her that you got it,” Sophie suggests, expression neutral. “She really wanted to talk to you.”

Cheria’s chinks turn a bit pink at that. “R-Really?” she stutters, heat rising within her. “Well, I’ll let her know I got it, then.” Before she can let Sophie dwell on the color of her face, she dives into inspecting the little device, feeling the ridges of the keys against her fingertips.

Sophie smiles when Cheria looks away. Keeping in touch sounded like a distant dream before, but now it’d be all too easy—even as Cheria fumbles with the buttons on the communicator, her eyes locked in concentration.

And, Sophie thinks when she watches a small, round bird fly off from Cheria’s communicator, maybe it’ll spur Cheria on to start thinking of herself, too.

* * *

Later, Cheria tells Sophie that she arrived in Zavhert to deliver medicine and supplies outside of town. Her group decided to stay behind in Velanik, but Cheria went on ahead—she has the most combat experience of anyone in the relief organization, she tells Sophie, as Sophie swells with pride for her.

Sophie feels a bit empty when Cheria announces that she has to get back to her work for the evening, but when she sees the communicator poking out slightly from Cheria’s bag, it makes her feel a little bit better. Maybe, as Cheria had said earlier, they can always talk, no matter how far away they are.

Cheria left her with a blanket, and Sophie stays behind in Zavhert inn for a bit longer, bundling up in front of the fire. The inn has gotten more lively since they last stayed; the communal stove in the entrance burns brighter, crackling loudly. More people walk in and out, bringing both snow and good tidings with them. Some stay for a drink at the bar, but most walk in to spend time in the atmosphere and leave cheerier than they came, cheeks rosy and warm.

Sophie is mulling over her options for the evening, her possible routes of travel and how much money she’ll need for a ferry, when she hears a familiar voice from the front of the bar.

“Get me the usual, would you?” says Captain Malik’s deep baritone as he drops a stack of gald on the counter and grabs a seat at the bar. The bartender nods and turns to the mosaic of bottles behind him, and Malik sighs and runs a hand through his hair, coat sprinkled with stray flecks of snow.

“Captain!” Sophie calls, walking over to him—she’s a bit sad to leave the fire behind, but the Captain has always made her feel right at home and much warmer than before.

Surprise flashes on his face. “Sophie? What are you doing here?” Nonetheless, he gestures at the open seat beside him, and she takes it without hesitation; her feet don’t even touch the ground, and she swings them against the metal barstool and counter.

“I’m traveling,” she says simply; when Malik quirks an eyebrow up at her brief explanation, she continues, because it’s not the first time she’s had to elaborate, “I wanted to see everyone, so I visited Pascal first. Now I’m here.”

Malik crosses his arms. “You were right to trek here first. There’s no better time to visit Fendel than in the wintertime.” He shakes a bit of snow off from his shoulders to prove it.

“Right,” Sophie says, even though she’s _pretty_ sure he’s being sarcastic—she’s learned to pick up sarcasm better than she could a year ago. “What are you doing here, Captain?”

“I usually swing by here a couple of days a week after work,” Malik answers, glancing around the room with a weight in his eyes far beyond his years, at the smothered sparks of revolution buried for good. “I haven’t been able to get away from Zavhert recently, but at least I can unwind with a few drinks and a few laughs.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sophie answers, always honest, always straightforward. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Sophie.” Malik’s eyes snap back to Sophie’s, and the creases on his face melt away, revealing a more youthful spirit than before. “You said you’ve seen Pascal, so I must be second on your journey.”

“I saw Pascal at her home, and then I saw Cheria here. You’re the third person I’ve seen.”

“Cheria was here?”

“Yes. She said her relief organization is in Velanik right now.”

Malik’s eyes cloud over with an emotion Sophie isn’t able to name yet. For once, he hesitates, and then murmurs, “She’s doing good work.”

Sophie opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, the bartender places a lowball glass in front of Malik, ice clinking against the sides. “Here you are, sir,” he says, bowing slightly and excusing himself from their conversation.

One look at the glass makes Sophie wrinkle her nose. It’s a dark liquid, and it smells strong. Malik chuckles a bit at her expression. “Want something to drink, Sophie?” he teases, resting his elbows on the counter (if Cheria were here, Sophie thinks, she’d scold him for that).

Sophie frowns, sticking her tongue out at the drink as if to scare it away. “I don’t want that.”

“Probably a good thing. It’s a bit too strong for you.” Regardless, he waves the bartender back over and orders her an apple gel juice, which Sophie finds much more agreeable than whatever he’s decided to drink for the evening.

Two sips into her drink, Sophie is lost in thought. Cheria’s blushing face is at the forefront of her mind again; Cheria might have wanted Sophie to forget it, but there’s no way she _could_ forget it, the way her face lit up upon hearing Pascal’s name, the way stories of Pascal’s achievements made her step a little lighter. There must be some meaning to it, even if Cheria wouldn’t want her to figure it out.

The conversations she overheard at Lhant Manor during one of Pascal’s rare visits floods her mind. Pascal told Cheria that she’d always have a place at the enclave, so why hadn’t Cheria visited her yet? The smiles she flashed Pascal were always much more genuine than she showed to almost anyone else.

Maybe she’s overthinking it. Maybe there’s really nothing there, and Cheria is just happy to hear about Pascal from time to time.

Or, maybe, Sophie thinks, there are other people that aren’t good at identifying their own feelings.

“I know that look,” Malik says suddenly, snapping Sophie out of her thoughts. “What are you frustrated about, Sophie?”

Sophie nurses another sip of her drink before giving up and putting it back on the counter. “I think Cheria likes Pascal.”

Malik, for his part, barely looks surprised. He raises an eyebrow, but it’s hardly a change in expression. “What makes you think that?”

“Whenever I mention her, Cheria starts humming and gets really happy. And Pascal told me that she wanted to talk to Cheria again. When I told Cheria that, she started blushing.” She starts ticking them off on her fingers as she goes. “Whenever Pascal visited us in Lhant, Cheria would make her banana pies and then Pascal would share them.”

“Oh, no. If Pascal’s willing to share a slice of pie with her, they must really have something special.”

“I think so, too,” Sophie says—she can hear the humor creeping into Malik’s voice, but she’s being _serious_ about this, and that makes Malik straighten up, too. “I don’t think Cheria’s thought about it very much. But Hubert told me to _learn things through observation_ , so I have been, and I think they like each other.”

Malik rubs his chin. “What else have you noticed?”

“Pascal made everyone communicators.” Sophie reaches into her bag to procure the machine itself, small but filled with so much power. “She was extra sure to tell me to give one to Cheria.”

Malik closes his eyes in contemplation for a moment, as if mulling over how many troops to send to the outer reaches of Fendel (fitting, Sophie thinks—they might need that much help to spur Cheria and Pascal on to talking about this). “Cheria’s normally rather up front with her feelings,” he eventually settles on; Sophie can see him wince slightly, recalling the times he dared to tease her about Asbel and almost received a smack in response. “Most of the time, anyway. But Pascal’s a bit more…”

“Insufferable,” Sophie finishes.

“Hey, I didn’t know I was talking to Hubert.”

“It’s what he says,” she shrugs.

“He might not be wrong, at least in this case.” Malik takes another swig of his glass, a long, deep drink; by the time he’s finished, his glass is empty, and it’s back on the table with a triumphant flourish. “I think you might be onto something, Sophie.”

“But I don’t know how to get them to talk about it,” she frowns, biting her lip. She’s been thinking about it all day, but getting Pascal to think seriously about something that isn’t banana pies seemed a fruitless effort.

“The first step in any romantic confession is getting them alone. You have the communicators now. I suggest you use those.”

Sophie contemplates for a moment, and then her eyes light up. “Captain, what restaurants are there in Zavhert?”

Malik chuckles at her enthusiasm, patting her head and ruffling her hair. “Careful, now. Don’t get too excited. You still need to leave the rest up to them.”

* * *

Pascal probably never imagined that her communicators would be used for this, but Sophie figures she can be forgive just this once. With the Captain's help, Sophie has her own script to follow and type out on the machine, her fingers ghosting over every key as she searches for each letter. Her reading and writing skills have gotten better, but it's still slow going; she's at least good at copying down what the Captain wrote for her, and she made him promise that he wouldn't make it weird, so she's confident it might get them to actually listen to her.

_Cheria,_ reads the first message she sends flying off, _if you're not busy, would you like to accompany me for dinner at the restaurant in Zavhert plaza?_ It's not her normal style of speech or writing, but the Captain assured her that it would get Cheria's attention.

The second message reads, _Pascal, have dinner with me at Zavhert._ Much more straight and to-the-point; the Captain had been messaging Pascal on her communicator for weeks now, and he told Sophie, holding a hand over his forehead and massaging it, that she never listened to messages much longer than that. It seems rude when Sophie reads it back, but if it gets her to listen, then it's worth it.

Cheria sends her a message back within half an hour, the tiny holographic bird announcing its presence with a quick, mechanical chirp, and Sophie's screen reads, _I'd love to, Sophie!_

One down, Sophie thinks. Her plan is falling into place.

Pascal doesn't respond to her messages before the afternoon wanes, and Sophie is almost convinced that her message got lost or that Pascal _herself_ got lost, but soon enough the little bird flies back to announce that Pascal will be there right on time. Maybe Pascal has been expecting a message, Sophie considers, anxious to see how Sophie's journey with the communicators has been after only a day.

The restaurant in Zavhert isn't particularly crowded, despite the town's recent uptick of activity. It's a sparse place, but the main dining room is warm; Sophie finds herself wondering whether Pascal and the Captain's work has reached here yet, hot water spinning through the pipes throughout the walls.

The waiter asks her if she'd like a table for one. No, she says, a table for three, a slight smile on her features, but she'll wait. It shouldn't be long until they show up.

When the door next opens, bell on the wood announcing the entrance, Pascal bounds through, in the same outfit as always and barely covered for the cold. "Sophie!" Pascal exclaims, running to scoop Sophie up in a hug.

"Hello, Pascal," Sophie smiles, catching a whiff of motor oil on Pascal's clothes; she must have run out in the middle of an experiment again, but at least she's here, and that's what matters. "I'm happy to see you here."

"Kinda weird of you to invite me out for dinner, though," Pascal says, scratching the bare back of her neck, apparently not minding the fact that her gloves are caked in snow. "And so suddenly like that! You're so to-the-point in your messages, I almost thought it was the Captain asking me out on a date or whatever."

"The Captain helped me write it."

"Oh!" Pascal smacks a fist against her hand. "That explains everything, then." A pause. "Wait, no it doesn't. You saw the Captain here? He's was totally supposed to tell me the next time he could get away from work, so we could go pub crawling again."

"You shouldn't forget about your work," Sophie scolds, an echo of Cheria's voice.

"Yeah, yeah, let Cheria do the scolding." She leans back on the balls of her feet and starts to sway; Sophie thinks that's an awfully ominous thing to say, and maybe her plan has been figured out by now, but—

The door opens again, and Cheria walks through, bundled up tightly from the cold, scarf around her neck and coat fluffed with snow. Her eyes widen when she sees the two suspects in the entrance of the restaurant. "Pascal? What are you doing here?"

“Whoa, speaking of!” Pascal cries, smiling when Cheria’s expression softens. “I’m here ‘cause Sophie invited me to dinner!" She lifts her hand up for a high five, and Sophie returns it happily. "Omigosh, did you decide to come to dinner here too? What a scary coinky-dink!"

"I think it's less of a coinky-dink and more of something Sophie planned." Cheria's eyes narrow at Sophie just slightly, and Sophie shrugs. "It's nice to see you, Pascal. Let's all have dinner together."

"Kay!"

"Kay."

"Sophie, don't copy her," Cheria mutters, shrugging her shoulders. Regardless, she greets the waiter and asks for a table for three, and before long they're seated at their own table near the back, private and secluded, a candle burning between them.

Pascal and Cheria sit across from each other, and Sophie sits at the third side of the table between them. She grumbles when her feet don't touch the ground—why does every chair in Fendel have to be so high?—but spoiling the mood too soon would turn her plans into dust, so she puts up with it.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Cheria says across the table, making Pascal startle from her examination of the menu. "It must be a month now. Have you been busy?"

"Mm, the Captain and I have been working lots on the hot water stuff, so kinda? But," Pascal winks, "it's nice to get away once in a while to talk to you guys. That's why I made the communicators. Did Sophie give you one?"

"Yes," Cheria blushes slightly, pulling the communicator from her coat pocket; she had held it so tightly out in the field, but it looks none worse for the wear. "It was really nice of you to make these for us."

"Sophie suggested it," Pascal says, nodding toward Sophie, who smiles back. "But it was a great idea. It sucks not being able to see you or everyone else. So what better way to keep in contact than by talking all the time?"

Cheria smiles softly, letting the communicator rest safely in her pocket; the one person she was looking forward to messaging is already here. "It'll be nice to talk to you more often."

"Well, it's nice talking to you right now!"

Sophie looks between them, at Cheria's warming face and Pascal's excited expression, and decides it's time for phase two.

"Cheria," she starts, pulling on Cheria's bundled sleeve, "I'm going to wash my hands."

"Okay," Cheria whispers back. "Make sure you scrub well."

"I will." Sophie slides off her side of the chair, her feet finally touching the ground. She looks one last time at Pascal and Cheria, before turning around and making her way to the front of the restaurant.

* * *

"So why d'ya look so tired, Cheria?"

"Oh." Cheria snaps out of her reverie, her chin resting against her hand (poor manners, really—she should pay more attention to her surroundings). "I'm not," she mutters lamely, more for herself than for Pascal.

"No, I can tell," Pascal says, concern coloring her voice; she leans over the table slightly to reach Cheria's arm and touches it gently, and if Cheria thought her own faux pas was bad, this is even worse. "Are ya getting enough sleep?"

"I'm the one who's supposed to be asking you that."

"Then you've really got some work to do."

Cheria sighs, because she's right; if _Pascal_ is lecturing her... "I've just been traveling a lot of places recently. And I haven't been able to see anyone, because I'm always busy."

"Don'tcha visit Asbel from time to time? He's never busy, right?"

"He is when I go home." The last time she was home, however brief it might have been, he was holed up in his study for days, Sophie quietly admonishing him for ignoring Cheria's visit. "I know he has a lot of work to do, but sometimes I wonder why I bother."

Pascal picks at the fuzz on her gloves, a poor imitation of picking at her nails. "Are you not happy?"

Cheria takes a moment to consider that.

Is she happy?

She thought she was, traveling from country to country and handing out supplies, helping the people who need it most. It’s work she loves to do: healing the sick and injured, hearing the stories her patients tell her about their families, reading letters from wives happy that their husbands have returned safe and sound. They send her pictures sometimes, and Cheria allows herself to imagine it, imagine her white castle with a flower garden out front, a spacious yard, a perfect place for her husband and her children and their dogs.

But that vision has been murkier recently. Hearing the wives croon about how she helped their husband's battle injuries, she finds it harder and harder to imagine herself in their shoes, imagine waiting at home only to find her husband in his study, locked away from the world and from her. What she thought she wanted is too far away, and it's too different from what she's realizing she _might_ want.

She's not happy, not like that.

The rules are different here, in Fendel, far away from home, a distant land marked by harsher climate and a rougher language. At home, she’s the future wife of the Lord of Lhant. Here, she realizes, a weight lifting from her shoulders, she’s Cheria, just Cheria, a leader of a relief organization and a beacon of hope for the community before she is any man’s wife. Here, she’s Pascal’s friend, enjoying a quiet dinner in a small restaurant, Pascal hanging on her next response instead of brushing her off and pretending things can be the same as they always have been without considering Cheria’s feelings _at all._

She’s happy here. Here, with Pascal, despite the faint scent of motor oil on her clothes and the surprise of her visit, because it feels _real_ , like Pascal isn’t pretending to be someone she’s not, less an imagined happiness she wished she could have for so long and more a happiness she’s learning she wanted all along.

But she just sighs again, because it's better than admitting it out loud: "I don't know."

"Sounds to me," Pascal says, looking up from her hands, "that you gotta start living for yourself instead."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you just place all your happiness on one person, then when you can't see them, you're gonna be unhappy. You told me before that you're frustrated when you can't see Asbel or whatever, but would seeing him make you happy?"

"You're..." _Right_ , she wants to finish, but instead she mutters, "very perceptive."

"It's just stuff I've learned from living with my sister," Pascal continues. "You gotta find out what you want instead of hoping you'll find it someday. And hey, if you ever get stressed, you can come by my place! We can play poker and stuff!”

_You'll always have a place at the Enclave, if you don't mind the mess._

Cheria allows herself to dream for a moment. ”I'd like that," she whispers, a smile forming on her face despite herself.

* * *

Sophie has a feeling that Cheria knows that she isn't going to the washroom like she promised, but like she told herself earlier: it's okay to break her promises just this once. Instead, she huddles by a half-size wall at the restaurant entrance and spies.

Their conversation is off to a good start. The first part to any romantic confession is getting them alone, the Captain had said, and so far they're succeeding. It's the same as the other times they've been alone together; Sophie has seen that same smile on Cheria's face, that same silly expression on Pascal's, heard that same laugh as Cheria holds her hand in front of her mouth.

It's the same. That's not what she wants. It has to be better, more romantic, make them actually _admit_ their feelings for each other, or at least get them to start thinking about feelings. Sophie grumbles and bites her lip; it's harder than she expected, and they haven't even ordered food yet.

After a few minutes of listening to their conversation, she wanders back over to their table; Cheria would worry if she was gone for too long, after all, and even though she can take care of herself, she's not sure Cheria can take care of herself sometimes, least of all when she worries about Sophie.

Sophie pushes her chair out from the table to sit back down, and both Cheria and Pascal look up, startled. "I'm back," Sophie announces, taking her seat.

Cheria furrows her brow. "You were gone an awfully long time. Everything okay?”

Sophie just shrugs in response. "I scrubbed my hands really hard."

Cheria raises an eyebrow, but doesn't fight back. Sophie focuses herself on the menu instead, hoping they'll continue their conversation, but the din over their table has lulled to the sounds of Pascal's frustrated musings over what to order.

Eventually, they settle on an appetizer of Zavhert cabbage rolls, and the waiter takes their menus and leaves them to their own conversation again. The restaurant is too quiet to provide a meaningful distraction; the waiters bussing from table to table speak in hushed tones, and the doors to the kitchen are cloaked in deep oak, too thick to hear the sounds of sizzling food.

This isn't going at all like Sophie hoped, because neither of them are being particularly chatty, and especially not about their feelings. It _can't_ be a bad plan, because the Captain helped her come up with it and he always has the best advice, so there must be something else she can do.

Time to take out her secret weapon.

"Cheria, you should tell Pascal you like her."

"W-What?" Cheria sputters, nearly knocking over the table in response. Pascal looks up in surprise, but no more; Cheria's eyes widen as a blush blooms on her cheeks. "Where did you even get that idea?"

"Aw, c'mon, Cheria, I like you! We're the bestest buds in the world."

"No," Sophie shakes her head, hair swaying from side to side; honestly, why won't they get it? "You should tell her that you _like_ -like her."

Cheria nearly shrieks, but the atmosphere makes her suppress it to a strangled whine. "Sophie, I think you have the wrong idea."

"You were talking with Pascal and smiling just a few minutes ago. Pascal touched your arm and you smiled."

"Smiling doesn't mean you have a crush on someone, Sophie," Cheria protests, but the color isn't draining from her cheeks.

"But you have a special smile when you see Pascal.”

“She does?” Pascal chimes in, ignoring the glare that Cheria shoots at her.

“Yes. It’s brighter than her normal smile. She gets little dimples on the corners of her cheeks.”

Cheria fusses with her her hands in her lap, pretending like she doesn’t know that _exact_ smile that Sophie’s describing.

“And when Cheria doesn’t want to admit something, she fusses with her hands—”

“ _Okay_ , Sophie, I think that’s enough,” Cheria manages, separating her hands and placing them very deliberately at her sides. “I should have known something was up with the way you messaged me. It didn’t sound like you.”

“The Captain told me that if I worded it like that—”

“Did you get this idea from the Captain? Because the next time I see him, I’ll—”

“No,” Sophie interrupts, shaking her head again—Cheria’s getting awfully heated about this, and she has to smother the flames somehow. “It was my idea.”

“Sophie…” Cheria trails off, the heartbeat ringing in her ears dissipating to a quiet, constant drumbeat, “it’s a bit more complicated than that, okay?”

“You told me that I have a hard time telling people what I feel.” Sophie’s eyes are clear, confident, almost hawkish when she meets Cheria’s gaze. “But right now, you’re just as bad at it.”

Pascal smacks her hand on the table. Her cheeks have a slight dusting of pink, but Sophie isn’t sure if Cheria can tell. “Ha, she’s got you now, Cheria!”

“Pascal, you are _not_ helping,” Cheria rounds on her, eyes narrowed. “And Sophie, you’re taking this way out of line.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Sophie protests weakly, hoping her downcast expression will buy her a few points—she’s not _trying_ to make Cheria mad, but it was the only way to bring the conversation up. “You seem sad when you think about Asbel, but you’re happy right now. I thought it meant something.”

“Yeah, Cheria,” Pascal says, devilish smile playing her lips—honestly, Cheria is going to _kill_ her for that later—“if you’re happy right now, what’s an awkward conversation or two matter? Let Sophie have her fun.”

“Ugh,” Cheria sighs, defeated, because Pascal’s expression is telling her _let’s talk later_ even though she knows that _later_ is going to make her want to spontaneously combust. “Just drop it! Drop it. That’s it. This conversation is done. You two are un _belie_ vable.”

Pascal shrugs, shooting a look at Sophie, who shrugs in kind; when the waiter brings their cabbage rolls out, Pascal is the first to dive for them while Cheria puts her head in her hands.

* * *

“So was all that stuff true? You know. What Sophie said.”

Cheria blanches, feeling the color drain from her face; god, Pascal really _did_ mean “talk later”, and now she’s receiving her dues. She nearly drops Sophie, slumbering and breathing deeply on her back, and Sophie is heavy enough as it is—she doesn’t need these heavy topics weighing on her, too. They’re not even close to Zavhert inn to rest for the night, and Pascal’s already bringing this up. “What does that matter? She was joking. She’s just a kid.”

“She’s not _just a kid_ , Cheria. She’s really good at reading people. Like, I played some poker with her earlier. You know how many games she won?” Pascal pauses for dramatic effect, and then raises two fingers. “The first game was me teaching her how to play. I almost won that one, but she had a straight flush without even knowing it. The second and later? She totally called my bluffs, and won like, all of my bananas.”

Cheria rolls her eyes, because frankly, she’s confident that even she could call Pascal’s bluffs. It’s not like Pascal’s a great liar. “A card game is completely different from… whatever feelings Sophie thinks she saw.”

“But it’s not. If you wanna win, you have to be good at telling emotions apart. Or at least, be able to tell when someone’s lying. Sophie’s good at that. And you’re not all that great at lying, ‘cause right now, you look more guilty than I do when my sis catches me using one of her tools.”

Pascal always _does_ this, Cheria thinks: she has the annoying, uncanny way of dropping her games when Cheria would rather she play another round. “Okay, you want the truth?”

“Lay it on me.”

“I’m sick and tired of being in Lhant and hearing people ask when Asbel and I are getting married, like I have no say in the decision at all. I’m tired of waiting for Asbel to actually follow through on that and getting ignored. And,” she hefts Sophie up again to secure her, “I’m tired of people assuming how I feel when even _I_ don’t know anymore. I’m not blaming Sophie for that, but it’s just… a lot at once.”

Pascal is quiet for a moment, and Cheria breathes in, and out, deeply and with purpose to stay her beating heart. Pascal’s expression doesn’t change, and for a brief moment, Cheria is almost worried Pascal will toss her problems aside and pretend like she’s just making it all up and over-exaggerating, like everyone _else_ always says.

“Okay, well, forget about what Sophie said, then. Pretend you’re married to Asbel or whatever. How’s that make you feel?”

Pascal almost laughs when Cheria can’t keep the grimace from showing on her face. “Stop! You’ll wake Sophie up,” she cries, but somehow Sophie’s breathing hasn’t changed. “Ugh, no, I’m not saying it’d be bad. It’s just… whenever I think about it now, it’s not as picture perfect as it used to be. Now all I can think about is how it’s _expected_ of me to get married to him. That’s not what I want.” She sighs, takes a deep breath, and says, defiantly, the first time she’s ever admitted it to herself: “I don’t want to marry him.”

“What d’ya want, then?” Pascal’s tone is too light, too playful for the serious conversation, and she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.

“I…”

Cheria realizes: she wants her conversations to stay like this, embarrassing as they might be, because at least they’re talking to each other honestly. She wants to speak with no inhibitions. She wants to be with people who won’t expect her to be the perfect Lady of Lhant, the perfect wife to a far more important husband.

She wants Sophie with her, holding her hand as they bake together, tugging on her sleeves for attention. She wants Pascal to lighten up their conversations, to bring her stupid brand of humor to their worst days to weather the storm, to hear Pascal’s machines buzzing in her house to help her with menial tasks.

She wants this.

“It’s okay if you don’t have an answer right now.” Pascal winks at her, and god, Cheria hates that look, because it makes her smile. “But hey, maybe Sophie had a good idea. You can spend some time with me and we can figure it out!”

“If Sophie was telling the truth— _if_ ,” Cheria stammers, pretending like she doesn’t know that Sophie was already, “that wouldn’t bother you?”

“Nah. Why would it? S’not like it’d change stuff. We can talk with the communicators. You can visit my workshop when you don’t have anything to do. And sometimes I have to go check out remote places to see the heating system work, so you can go traveling the world with your healing powers, and maybe I could go with you! And we can kiss or whatever?” Pascal’s forever-playful expression meets Cheria’s scandalized one, and she laughs. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

Cheria lets her shoulders sag for a brief moment before she feels Sophie slipping slightly, then raises them in a hurry. The last thing she needs to do is wake Sophie up right now. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

She can’t stop the blush rising to her cheeks as she imagines it, though.

* * *

Sophie’s eyes creak open, just slightly, and she smiles to herself.

Maybe her plan didn’t go perfectly. But, she thinks, watching Cheria hold Pascal’s hand in her own, maybe it worked out in the end.


End file.
